A Drop in the Ocean
by Photogirl1890
Summary: A Paris-Torres family day out. Earth, 2379.


**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** This was written for **CaptAcorn** , who supplied me with the prompt - "Post series story about either Tom or B'Elanna meeting the other person's family (i.e. Tom and John Torres or B'Elanna's extended Klingon family; B'Elanna and the Paris clan). Any level or combo of funny/angsty as the author prefers."

My thanks to **CaptAcorn** for a prompt which gave me the opportunity to really stretch my writing: this is the first time I've written for some of the characters involved and the first time I've ventured beyond a post-series setting.

A big thank you is also due to **Delwin** for the usual much needed encouragement and beta-reading.

* * *

 **A Drop in the Ocean**

He's standing outside a bookstore when Tom catches sight of him. Hunched over a table, perusing the books laid upon it. They're real paper books. Dozens of copies. Tom wouldn't mind a chance to browse through them for a while himself.

"John," he calls out.

Turning at the sound of his name, John Torres beams a broad smile in his son-in-law's direction, promptly settling his gaze upon the small toddling figure clutching hold of Tom's left hand. "Look at you!" John says, closing the distance between them, crouching to kiss the girl's gently ridged forehead. Rising, he clasps Tom's proffered hand and shakes it firmly. Then, glancing around, furrows his brow. "No B'Elanna?"

"She'll be here," Tom assures him. "The early meeting she had at the university this morning is running on a bit. She knew how eager you were to see Miral, so she told us to come on ahead."

John brightens and releases Tom's hand. "Oh. OK. I was worried there for a moment."

Tom is worried – he's been worried since exiting this seaside town's transport station – but he has no concerns that B'Elanna won't show up, just anxiety about her reaction to the weather when she does. The North Sea wind is biting, even here in the middle of the 'high street', with very little discernible heat spilling out from the numerous retail establishments and still less emanating from the low winter sun. Couldn't John have chosen a more cosy locale for this meet up? It's the middle of February, for goodness' sake. And the local time has just passed fifteen hundred hours. It's only going to get colder as the evening approaches.

There's an awkward pause, broken when Miral spots the small item tucked under John's arm and makes her current 'what's that?' sound. Whatever the object is, it's wrapped in shiny silver paper: not exactly neatly, Tom observes, but then he isn't sure he could do a better job given its non-cuboidal shape.

"Oh, this is for you," John says, taking hold of the gift and crouching again to present it to Miral who grasps it eagerly.

The wrappings don't stand a chance. In record-breaking time, Miral has the paper off, dropping it at her feet from where Tom quickly retrieves it before the wind whisks it away along the sidewalk.

"Do you like it?" John asks Miral, remaining at her eye level.

It's a sailing boat: a sloop with white fabric sails and a light wooden mast. There's a rudder attached to its red and white hull. Both the rudder and sails look adjustable. It's a functional model, Tom would bet.

Miral doesn't answer her grandfather, but, judging by the fact she hasn't hurled the little boat to the ground and is, instead, transferring it between her gloved hands and examining it closely, Tom concludes that, yes, she most certainly does like it.

For all the man's faults, John Torres has good taste in toys.

"The sea's a little cold today for sailing, isn't it?" Tom quips, unable to hold back from adding, "Especially for a one-year-old quarter Klingon."

John looks up at Tom, his face falling. Then he stands and smiles. "Oh, it isn't for the sea. I thought maybe we could take Miral to the lake down by the old lifeboat station. It's just like a big garden pond. For kids and their model boats." He gestures to the boat. "That's why I didn't send it over in time for her birthday. So I could watch her try it out on the lake. If that's all right with you?"

Tom is warming to this idea. Fast. Even if he is, as the locals around here would say, bloody well freezing.

"That sounds like fun," he says. "And thank you, by the way."

The cynical part of him wonders, briefly, if the boat is an attempt by John to curry favour with his son-in-law. At their last meeting, Tom had mentioned his love of the ocean and his early ambitions to join the Federation Naval Patrol. But such manipulative behaviour doesn't seem like John's style and Tom puts that thought out of his mind.

Tugging up the zipper on his jacket, stooping then to check that Miral is still suitably enclosed in her especially acquired woollen coat, he pulls up her hood and says to John, "Did you want to lead the way?"

John hesitates. "Won't B'Elanna wonder where we are? We agreed to meet here in the market place."

"I can comm her. Miral will get bored if we stand around waiting."

John nods knowingly at that. "Ah, yes. B'Elanna was exactly the same at that age. No patience at all."

 _What's changed?_ Tom thinks, but he doesn't give voice to the thought. It's unfair of him, actually. B'Elanna is far more patient now than she was when he first knew her. These days she has to be.

Reaching down to clasp his daughter's hand (he'll be glad when she's grown a little taller and he doesn't have to stoop quite so much), Tom shoulders the bag of essential supplies that accompanies the toddler wherever she goes.

"How about it?" he asks her. "Are you ready to go play with your boat?"

Miral smiles broadly up at her grandfather then, turning that grin on Tom, she grunts her reply.

…

They start to walk, three abreast along the sidewalk with Miral, setting the pace, in the centre. She hugs the boat against her chest, her ever inquisitive eyes assessing the surroundings.

Tom also surveys the unfolding scene. It's a quaint little town, bustling but uncrowded. The sea itself is not visible as yet – the buildings on the other, east side of the street obscure the view – but, regardless, he could not mistake this place for an inland settlement. There are nautical symbols everywhere, from the names of the pubs and restaurants ('The Jolly Sailor Inn', 'The Lookout Café') to the painted murals on end terrace walls (anchors, seashells, and sandcastles). The glass-paned summit of a lighthouse peeks up above the town hall roof and the tell-tale cries of gulls fill the frigid air.

Passing a Bolian beauty salon, where the cloying smell of hair products mingles with the appetising aroma of freshly baked bread from the adjacent delicatessen, Tom glances sideways at John. "How did you find out about this place?" Tom asks him. "I'm assuming you've been here before as you know your way around?"

They come to a halt, allowing a walker of multiple dogs to cross their path. Then, on resuming their stroll, John says, "I have a colleague who lives nearby. A _friend_ , actually."

"Ah. So you're visiting him while you're here?"

There's a pause, then, "I'm staying with her for a few days."

"Oh." _Her?_ "And will your friend be joining us today?" Tom presses. John has never mentioned any female _friends_ before. Tom isn't sure how B'Elanna might react to the prospect of an unexpected dinner companion of that ilk.

"Not today," John responds, and speaks no more of it, changing the subject to point out an ancient milestone inset within a crumbling stone wall.

At John's suggestion, the trio cross the road, coming then to a gap between two elegant whitewashed townhouses. It's through here that Tom first spies the sea, a gently rolling mass of grey beyond a concrete wall and a wide shingle beach, much calmer than the strength of the wind would suggest.

"We can cut through here," John says. So they enter the alleyway, in single file now, with John at the front and Tom shepherding Miral so that she follows.

It's not as if Miral has never seen the sea before. But, as they emerge from the other end of the alleyway onto a tarmacked promenade, John seems to forget that his granddaughter lives on the coast, gesturing as he does to the beach and the waves and one crazy old guy in a wetsuit who is heading for the water. Miral stops abruptly, looking alternately between Tom and the sea and her boat with a furrowed brow.

"We're not going in the sea," Tom tells her, the mere thought sending additional shivers down his spine. "We're going to a lake. Like in the park where we go see the ducks. Only this lake doesn't have any ducks."

She seems accepting enough of that (her puzzled frown dissolves), and, when Tom tugs gently on her hand, she assents to start walking again.

"How much further is it?" Tom enquires, as he turns into the wind and feels his face begin to stiffen. The path runs north-east, parallel to the shoreline. If it weren't so damn cold, he'd suggest that they walk on the beach itself. Above the high tide mark it's dotted with small weathered trawlers, lobster pots, and other interesting fishing paraphernalia. But the shingle underfoot will only slow them down.

"Just up there," John says, pointing, "beyond that battered old shed."

It isn't all that far, though Tom is glad that Miral, despite her short legs, has plenty of stamina for walking. The temperature is far more of a concern to him. Miral's hood has fallen victim to the wind and her hair is beginning to look like it does when she takes it upon herself to 'brush' it.

"I think I'd better carry you," he tells her, but can immediately discern that she's none too taken with that idea. "We'll get there faster," he entices, but it isn't the carrying that she's objecting to – it's the carrier. This Tom infers when she plants herself in front of John and lifts her arms.

"Oh, sure, I can carry you," John says, hefting her up onto his hip, the model boat grazing his forehead.

And that's how they proceed, at a much quicker pace than before – past the seafront hotels and an art gallery and the battered old shack that sells the catch of the day – to the lake.

…

B'Elanna and her father have met seven times in the past fourteen months and have spoken in between those encounters. The first, somewhat awkward reunion had occurred just two weeks after _Voyager_ 's return. John, through tears, had been full of apologies, reiterating many of the regrets he had mentioned to B'Elanna during their brief conversation via the MIDAS array and in his letters. He had sought to embrace her. She'd deflected, offering him the baby instead. Not until the most recent of those past meetings, when John had come to dinner in Tom and B'Elanna's San Francisco apartment, had B'Elanna greeted her father with even a perfunctory hug.

Miral, on the other hand, has not been so slow to show her grandfather affection. And she isn't so generous with every family member: Tom's mother often has to beg for so much as a smile.

Tom still isn't entirely sure how he feels about his father-in-law – this man who has caused B'Elanna so much pain yet without whom Tom wouldn't even have his wife and daughter. He wants to like him. John is an affable guy. He's pleasant company, intelligent and well-travelled. But forgiveness often comes easier when one is slighted oneself than when a loved one is offended. And, what's more, Tom remembers how John's actions and John's words still reverberating through the years in B'Elanna's ears had caused his wife to seek to alter their perfect child. To make Miral less than whole by such drastic measures.

"How's your friend getting on?" John asks. "Harry, is it? The newly minted lieutenant you were talking about over dinner last time we met."

"He's good. Last I heard."

Tom misses Harry. Of all the difficult adjustments he's had to make over the past year, not seeing his best friend on an almost daily basis has been one of the hardest. Not as hard as the sleepless nights and the new and at times almost overwhelming responsibility of fatherhood, but something that has taken some getting used to, especially since Harry departed for Deep Space Twelve on the _Leonov_. Lieutenant (junior grade) Kim has been out of live comm range for the past three weeks.

"And your parents? How are they?"

"They're fine, thank you."

"When you see them next give them my regards."

"I will," Tom promises.

Two months after _Voyager_ 's return, the fourth of Tom and B'Elanna's meetings with John had taken place at the Paris family mansion: an opportunity for B'Elanna's father and Tom's parents to become acquainted. Tom's mother has been pressing ever since to extend John another invitation. But, while that dinner had gone relatively smoothly, B'Elanna isn't ready for a repeat of it just yet. Tom's parents, albeit unintentionally, had posed a couple too many questions that had skirted the edges of uncomfortable territory. B'Elanna needs more time alone with John – or to see John with only Tom and Miral alongside her – before associating with her father in a larger gathering again.

With what Tom supposes to be the lake now coming into view, John stops, adjusting his grip on Miral. "I must be getting old," he says, chuckling. "When B'Elanna was this age I used to carry her everywhere, but I don't recall my arms ever getting this tired quite so quickly."

"I can take her," Tom offers, but his daughter's response is to cling to her grandfather more tightly. "Or not," he adds dryly, as they resume. Miral is probably, he concludes after a little pondering, still harbouring a grudge from last night. Tom had snapped at her – more in panic than in anger – when he'd found her giving her Bajoran doll a severe Vulcan haircut with a pair of scissors that she'd somehow gotten hold of.

A dozen paces later and John halts once more, nodding towards the pink and yellow seafront terraces to their left. "These buildings here are over five hundred years old. Remarkable, isn't it? Especially given the wars and the climate changes of the twenty-first century. But this place got off lightly. There's a Napoleonic fort just down the coast. That's even older."

Tom follows John's gaze and studies the architecture. There's a lot about this town that reminds him of another – somewhere he's whiled away many an idle hour.

"I expect you saw a lot more exciting places than this during your time in the Delta Quadrant," John goes on.

Shrugging, Tom responds with, "Some. But many of those places didn't exactly feel safe. Most of them … well, they weren't places I'd have wanted to take Miral for a day out."

"No. I'd guess not," John returns, swallowing hard. With many of _Voyager_ 's mission details still classified, the general public are as yet unaware of the ship's most hazardous encounters. But they know enough – can infer enough – to conclude that the one hundred forty-four souls who made it back to the Alpha Quadrant alive were incredibly lucky.

Tom turns his mind towards happier memories and smiles. (He can still just about manage to manoeuvre the muscles of his face into that position.) "I wrote a holoprogram on _Voyager_ ," he tells John. "A simulation of nineteenth century Ireland. If you're interested in history you should try it. I could send you a copy. Maybe," the smile broadens, "we could all go together. Miral has never seen Fair Haven." B'Elanna will most likely throw scorn on the idea, but it's probably a more suitable program for a one-year-old child than Captain Proton. And Miral really should be introduced to her father's holoprogramming talents before she gets too much older. Tom is hoping that she might share his enthusiasm for the pursuit once she's learned to talk – though he's sworn to never coerce her into any pastimes or career pathways that she has no predilection for.

"That sounds great," John says, strolling onwards. "Let's do that sometime."

…

They arrive at the lake, which is, as John had noted, more like a large, raised garden pond, the shallow water unnaturally blue within its red-bricked enclosure. Now, Miral is as keen to escape her grandfather's arms as she was to climb into them earlier. John sets her down and, spotting a sizeable gap between two much older children, the little girl rushes to the water's edge holding her boat out in front of her.

As John moves swiftly to her side, Tom takes the opportunity to leave a message for B'Elanna detailing where she can find them and reminding her to bring her warmest clothing. The next thing he hears is the sound of his daughter's disgruntlement.

And then John's voice trying to soothe her with, "It's OK. It won't capsize or sink to the bottom. Look at those others. See? It'll float just like them. You try it."

Miral, who is just tall enough to reach over the wall to the water, is having second thoughts about launching her boat on its maiden voyage.

"I think she's worried it'll get sucked into the Delta Quadrant," Tom quips.

But the joke misses its mark. Either John just doesn't get it or he's too preoccupied to process the words right now. After another minute of fruitless cajoling he surrenders. "Maybe you can persuade her," he suggests, turning to Tom and then stepping aside for him to take his place beside Miral.

Immediately, she relinquishes the boat into Tom's care. "Oh, you want me to do it?" he queries, a little surprised by this turn of events.

She grunts, and allows him to gently sit the boat on the water's surface. He lets go, breathing a large sigh of relief as the boat remains upright. But it isn't still for long, the sail soon catching the breeze which sends it off at a surprisingly fast speed. Miral shrieks excitedly. Tom and John both share in her delight.

For an instant then, and not for the first time, an unpleasant memory intrudes – of his own father, scolding him for playing with the four-masted galleon that had sat on a windowsill in Tom's childhood bedroom. It was there to be looked at, admired for its craftsmanship, but not to be played with.

Tom shakes the memory away. "Now run around to the other side. You can catch the boat when it reaches the edge."

Miral makes haste to intercept it. Tom, hoping that the little craft won't collide with any of the other vessels on the water, (and that his child won't collide with any of the other aspiring sailors), digs his hands into his pockets and eyes the hot drinks vendor under the veranda of the lifeboat station.

…

Ten minutes later and, sitting on a rickety wooden bench sipping from steaming cups of freshly brewed coffee, the two men watch Miral circumnavigate the edge of the lake for the umpteenth time. Somehow, she never quite manages to catch hold of her boat before it changes direction, and this, rather than frustrating the toddler, only amplifies her glee. Intermittently, she pauses in her pursuit to observe the other kids and their toys, seeming particularly intrigued by a somewhat ostentatious model of a twentieth century battleship, remotely controlled by a boy on the cusp of his teens. Tom wonders if, given the chance to try, Miral would have the dexterity to control one of those models and the cognitive ability to figure out how to move it as she wanted. Not yet, is his conclusion, despite the accelerated growth compared to a similarly aged fully human child that her Klingon genes afford her. He could get one for the bathtub, but he would be the one who'd end up playing with it. The idea is still tempting, if only to see the look on B'Elanna's face.

"So," John asks, "this consultancy job that B'Elanna's been offered in Florida – will she take it, do you think?"

"I honestly don't know," Tom replies. "Today's meeting is a bit of a fact finding mission. The offer they sent her was thin on details."

"And your work as a flight instructor?"

"Now that I've decided it's what I want to do, I'm eager to get started. After the debriefings and the extended leave I could do with sitting at the conn again."

"But you'll be staying in system?"

"Absolutely. The Kuiper belt is as far as I'll be taking my students. At least for the foreseeable future."

Home by dinnertime: that was what he and B'Elanna had agreed. She'd go out to work on two or three days a week and Tom would fit his lessons into the remaining weekday hours. They would spend the weekends together as a family. While the regular and prolonged absences of his own father had been, at times, a blessing, Tom is determined not to miss the significant milestones that his own father had been away for during his childhood.

"And I hope we'll have more permanent accommodations sorted out soon," he continues. "It's great that Starfleet were so quick to find housing for all the crew that needed it. And they've said we can stay in the apartment for as long as we need to. But Miral is getting too big for that closet they call a second bedroom. She'll need a proper sized bed soon."

While Tom's parents had offered their numerous guest rooms, both he and B'Elanna had decided that living there would only be tolerable for a few days at most: they didn't need the heightened tensions that residing with relatives would inevitably bring. Like B'Elanna with her father, Tom and his parents must also become reacquainted – as the people they are now. And, towards that end, it is better for everyone involved that they see each other frequently but only for short periods of time.

"It's a lovely age," John says thoughtfully, staring not at Miral but down into his coffee.

The remark is innocuous, echoing sentiments that Tom has been offered on many occasions of late – from friends of his parents, from members of the _Voyager_ crew. Even Seven had remarked that Miral was 'becoming an intriguing individual to interact with'. In this instance, however, Tom can't help but read more into the statement by virtue of its originator. What exactly does John mean by that? Does he mean that two, three, four, and the rest are not lovely ages? And what would he know about anything beyond the age at which he abandoned his own child?

"Yes, it is," Tom agrees, as John brightens and raises his head.

Tom looks forward to every stage of his daughter's childhood. He can see beyond the toddler there in front of him, to the girl, the teenager – even the woman. Did John look at one-year-old B'Elanna and imagine his daughter's future? Did he see the prosperity, achievement and happiness that Tom sees looking at Miral? Or did he only see conflict, prejudice, and pain? How much did his feelings towards B'Elanna become coloured by the unhappiness he began to feel towards her mother?

Whatever John's marital problems were, Tom simply cannot comprehend how the man could have stood to keep breathing without his daughter in his life. The briefest consideration of an existence without Miral causes Tom physical pain, as if a knife has been plunged into his chest and is slicing his heart into tiny little pieces.

"Tom?"

He glances aside, sees that his father-in-law is peering at him with a look of concern.

"Are you all right?" John enquires.

"Fine," Tom croaks out, lifting his cup to his mouth. Gulping down what remains of the rapidly cooling liquid, he repeats the assurance. Then, observing that his daughter appears to have made a new friend, his lips curl up into a smile.

The throng around the lake has thinned out somewhat now, by virtue, Tom suspects, of it fast approaching sunset. An elderly couple with a freaky pink Chihuahua bicker loudly on a bench beside the coffee stand. The child they are simultaneously supervising – a young black-haired boy who has taken it upon himself to follow Miral like a shadow, chattering away and not caring a bit that Miral doesn't answer – has a large model boat of his own on the lake. But his Ktarian trimaran floats neglected.

John shifts his weight on the bench and asks, "Does she play much with other kids?"

"Sometimes," Tom answers, nodding. "With my nephews. Or kids at the park. She's not exactly shy with them, but, even when there are other kids around, she's happy amusing herself."

Though she was definitely getting more social interaction with kids her own age than she would have done on _Voyager_ , that was for sure.

"B'Elanna was like that too," John says. "Especially the older she got. Her cousins – my brother's kids – would come visit and she'd always have her head in a book or…" He trails off. "Uh, Tom?" There's now a hint of panic in his tone.

Tom sees why. Miral's boat is headed directly towards the open and outstretched hands of the black-haired boy. She expresses her distaste for this prospect by flashing the boy a look of pure unfiltered disgust. Tom, somewhat piqued by that casual mention of B'Elanna's cousins, responds to his father-in-law's reaction a little bluntly. "She's fine," he says, rising to his feet nevertheless.

That scowl doesn't faze Miral's companion, who continues to await the arrival of the boat into his hands. But, at the last possible second, and with Miral now expressing her disgruntlement for all around to hear, the boat veers off to starboard and into the safety of her clutches. Triumphantly, she yanks it out of the deep blue water, hugging it then to her chest.

The little boy starts crying. The ear-splitting noise that erupts from the throat of his grandparents' freaky genomorphic Chihuahua might well be the canine equivalent of the same. Heads all around turn to investigate the commotion, and Miral's rosy cheeks turn a deeper shade and are promptly wet with tears.

And everything had been going so well.

…

Scooping Miral into his arms, Tom swaps polite apologies with the elderly couple.

"She isn't used to sharing."

"He's used to getting everything he wants."

"There's no harm done."

"Just kids being kids."

"I think she's getting hungry."

And finding the eight hour time jump a little confusing. They'd left their apartment at 0630 but daylight here was drawing to a close.

"Come on," he says softly, as Miral's tears begin to abate. "Let's get you a snack." Preferably somewhere indoors.

They head back towards the bench where John, frowning fretfully, stands to greet them. "Hey," he says to Miral, nudging her shoulder, "there's no need to get upset." And then to Tom: "Shouldn't B'Elanna be here by now? Do you think she's all right?"

"I'm sure she's fine," Tom tells him, sitting back down for a moment with Miral, still clinging to her boat, squirming to get comfortable on his lap.

"Should you maybe check your comm messages?"

No, Tom thinks, but he does it to oblige his father-in-law. There's nothing. "Look," Tom says, "she'll have to walk from the university to the tram. Then, when she gets to the Miami transport station she may have to stand in line. Once she gets to the transport station in San Francisco, she'll have to walk back to the apartment because she'll want to change her clothes. That all adds up." Is John really still so insecure that he doubts B'Elanna will show up? She's never let him down yet. Why would she start now, today?

"I guess so," John concedes, then addresses Miral again. "You must have tired legs from all that running around, huh? It must be time for a rest."

"Is there someplace good nearby where I can get her a snack?" Tom asks. "She had a really early breakfast." At the mention of food, his stomach rumbles. "We both did actually."

"So, a café?"

Tom nods. "Somewhere cosy. Preferably with good cake."

"Sure," John says, "I know a couple of places. But, B'Elanna –"

"I'll try to get hold of her over the comm and update her on our meeting place."

But, it so happens, Tom doesn't have to. His wife, that very moment, contacts him: she'll be in town in an hour and will contact Tom again once she's arrived.

John is immediately more relaxed. "Then we'll still have time to walk around the shops before they close," he says cheerily. "Maybe you can get a few furnishings for when you find a house. And I made the dinner reservation for seven o'clock. That's what you said, wasn't it?"

"Sounds good," Tom tells him. It'll be a little early for what amounts to a midday meal for him and B'Elanna. But Miral can rarely make it beyond eleven thirty before she's hunting for her lunch. Taking the time difference and speed of service into account, seven o'clock should be just about right.

John guides them down a gravel footpath back towards the brightly lit High Street, away from the darkening beach. Tom keeps Miral in his arms. Apart from her face, she's as warm as toast and he savours the heat he absorbs from her. They crunch past a medical centre, a jewellers, and a florist, arriving then in the main shopping district, a short way along from where they'd turned off to the promenade earlier.

"We'll eat at that pub down there later," John says, pointing vaguely to one of the buildings down the street. "It has a great restaurant, log fires, local beer. But, for now, I think this will do nicely." He comes to a stop in the fluorescent glow of a wide bay window. There is condensation on the glass obscuring the view inside.

Tom looks up at the sign above the window. " 'The Old Wreck'? I hope it's better than the name suggests."

John chuckles. "You want good cake, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then trust me – this place is the best in town."

"So, you've been to quite a few places in town?" Tom probes, making the question sound nonchalant.

John hesitates. "Several, yes."

And now Tom is convinced that the man is holding something back. But what exactly is it? And why?

…

'The Old Wreck' is most certainly popular. On entering the lively café, Tom can't spy a single empty chair let alone a whole vacant table. But a server comes to lead them to the rear where there's plenty of extra seating.

And a glass-fronted counter full of cream-filled pastries, giant lavishly-frosted cookies, and cakes of all descriptions – many of which Tom couldn't begin to name.

"Wow," he exclaims, laughing when his equally impressed daughter makes a fair attempt at copying the word. "But we'd better go easy or we won't eat our dinner later." He lowers Miral to the vinyl tiled floor, cringing a little as she rushes to the glass and presses her face up against it. It takes all Tom's powers of persuasion to prize her away to the table that John has selected.

There are PADDs on the table top containing illustrated menus, the only concession to modernity that Tom has yet seen in this very old-fashioned establishment. It's a challenge to know what to order. John chooses tea, so Tom decides likewise. When it comes to the food, Tom has to return to that counter display. He takes Miral with him, letting her point to what catches her interest the most – which is, it turns out, a chocolate fudge cupcake with a smiley face iced on its top. Already, he can envisage the absolute mess she will make of it. The spare set of clothes in the bag might very well come in handy.

Deciding on a chunk of something called jam roly-poly for himself – it looks loaded with kilojoules, but, thanks to his morning runs, he can afford to indulge himself a little more than he could back on _Voyager –_ he carries Miral back to the table. The server brings a high chair, and Miral, with some protest, is settled into it.

Their drinks arrive without urgency, the serving staff very laidback. But, then again, none of the customers seem in any hurry. In fact, Tom hasn't seen anyone appearing to be in a rush in the whole of the town.

Miral is unusually patient. But then John is amusing her with some napkin origami. She's tiring of that when a server brings the tray with their food. The woman is clearly intrigued by Miral.

"Visiting from off-world?" she asks Tom. Her tone is entirely friendly, typical of one so employed.

"California," Tom tells her, a little annoyed by the way she is staring.

"Ah," she says, nodding, as if that explains Miral's ridges.

"This town is almost exclusively human," John explains, once the woman has moved on. "Apart from the Bolians of course. But there are Bolians everywhere on Earth these days, even in the most remote settlements."

Tom is glad that the woman has appeased her curiosity before B'Elanna arrives. When the three of them go out and about in San Francisco they are not unused to the attention of strangers. But, almost always, it's because they are recognised as members of the _Voyager_ crew – not because they represent an inter-species relationship and have a child of mixed heritage. Though maybe he's overreacting. She could have just heard his and John's accents and been staring at Miral because she's cute.

Peeling the paper from the bottom of Miral's cupcake, Tom sits it in front of her next to her toddler-friendly water cup. "Try not to get chocolate all over you," he tells her. "Or Mommy will get mad."

'Mildly irritated' would be a more accurate prediction – and Tom regrets that he even said anything when the comment prompts John to pass his napkin across the table as an extra degree of protection against the prospect of a row.

"I was exaggerating," Tom feels compelled to add. "B'Elanna wouldn't get _mad_ over that. And, even if she got a bit annoyed, it would be with me, not Miral."

Without responding, John picks up the teapot – china and floral like the cups and saucers – and pours for them both. Tom reaches for the nearest milk jug, prepares to pour a drop into his tea and then stops himself just in time on noticing the colour and consistency of the liquid.

"You know that's custard, right?" John says, without humour. "For your…" he points a finger, "…whatever it is you have there."

"Right. Of course." Tom tips some of the thick yellow goo onto his jam roly-poly, deciding that he might have to skip the starter when they sit down for a three course meal in a couple of hours. Fixing his tea as he likes it, he's about to take a first, dripping spoonful of the spongy dessert, when he hears his father-in-law clear his throat and inhale deeply. Tom looks up. John can't – or won't – hold his gaze.

"The friend that I've been staying with," John begins quietly, "she's … more than a friend."

Tom lowers his spoon back down into his bowl, arching an eyebrow. "I did wonder."

"We got together a few months before B'Elanna and I first spoke," John continues. "I never mentioned her because I wasn't sure if it was going to last and then, when things got more serious, I wasn't sure how B'Elanna would feel about it."

Tom lets the silence hang between them for a moment, partly because he needs time to compose an appropriate response but, also, in case John wants to add any further salient details. "You've kept it a secret all this time," Tom says eventually, rhetorically.

"I guess I panicked. I didn't want anything to get in the way of us rebuilding our relationship. It was simpler to keep it out of conversation. Just in case it upset her. It wasn't all that long ago that she got the news about her mother."

Tom can't quite see the connection there. John and Miral Torres had been divorced for over two decades by the time B'Elanna's mother had been declared missing and presumed dead by the Klingon authorities. B'Elanna had hardly expected her parents to ever reconcile. After that first, brief conversation with her father via the MIDAS array, she had mentioned to Tom her curiosity as to whether John was romantically involved with anyone. When he'd failed to mention any such attachment in his letters and then, later, during their initial face-to-face encounters, she'd assumed he was single and had never felt the need to enquire directly.

"But you can't keep lying by omission to B'Elanna," Tom asserts.

"I realise that now." John finally, but briefly, meets Tom's gaze.

"And, now that you've told me this, please don't ask _me_ to keep it from her. I'm sorry, but I won't do that." Their days of keeping secrets from each other are long over.

"I will tell her," John insists. "I want to."

Tom glances aside to check on Miral. She is perfectly contented, steadily demolishing the sticky brown cupcake and staring with fascination at a painting of a pastoral scene that hangs on the adjacent wall.

"She'll probably be upset with you," Tom says, turning back to face John. "You should be prepared for that."

"Then maybe I was right not to tell her sooner."

"No. I don't mean upset because you and this woman are involved – but because you've been keeping it a secret for over a year and a half. It's … I think she'll be a little insulted that you thought she wouldn't be able to handle it."

Though how much of that indignation she will openly express to John, Tom cannot predict. To lose her cool with him will only serve to add credence to his erroneous belief that her control of her temper is that tenuous. But to let her resentment simmer beneath the surface would not be healthy either.

"If she or you had ever asked me outright if I was seeing anyone then I would have said so," John counters.

"That's not really an excuse for keeping her in the dark over something so important." Tom keeps his voice level, but the thought that the bridges painstakingly rebuilt over the last year and a half between B'Elanna and her father could now, once again, become fractured leaves him feeling somewhat dismayed. "So, does your friend have a name? What's she like?"

"Her name is Agnetha. She's quiet. Easy-going. Considerate."

The exact opposite of B'Elanna's mother by the sounds of it.

"Any kids?"

"No. No kids."

One less potential complication.

John reaches into the pocket of his jacket, hanging behind him on the back of his chair. Pulling out a PADD, he switches it on, finds whatever he is seeking, and then passes the device to Tom. "That's her," John says, with a hint of a smile now gracing his lips. "Us. During a vacation we took on Risa just before _Voyager_ came home."

Tom studies the image. John, in bright summer clothing, standing by a signpost for the famous Eluvian mud baths. The smiling woman beside him is blonde with a fair complexion, not exactly plump but generously proportioned – again, quite in contrast to the pictures Tom has seen of B'Elanna's mother. "She looks nice," Tom says, returning the PADD to John before Miral catches sight of it and thinks it's time for 'Learn your ABC with Toby the Targ'. John would, undoubtedly, let Miral put her sticky little fingerprints all over the device if it would make her happy.

Pocketing the PADD, John finally takes a first bite of the apple Danish on his plate. "There have been other women over the years. Nothing long-term, but I haven't lived like a Tabern monk."

Despite everything, Tom can't help but snicker at that.

John raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Tom says, shaking his head. "Just a _Voyager_ thing. Too complicated to explain."

"Ah," John says, nodding. It's not the first time Tom or B'Elanna have had to use that excuse with John over some private _Voyager-_ based joke, although on all previous occasions the joke in question has not revolved around Tom's early attempts to flirt with the man's daughter.

"So, you met her through your work?"

"In a way. She's a systems engineer with Global Weather Control."

Another point in her favour, perhaps. "I assume she knows about B'Elanna? And Miral?"

"From the beginning. She's really eager to meet you all."

Instinctively, Tom turns his head to look around the café. "She's not been in the town today, has she? Watching us?"

"No, of course not. She's on Mars for a couple of days. At a terraforming conference. But she's seen you all in the holovid footage from _Voyager_ 's official homecoming ceremony and she's read the interview you gave to the Federation News Service _._ "

B'Elanna won't like that – to be at a disadvantage on their first meeting.

As the conversation lulls, Tom digs into his food, the sugar overload soothing his troubled nerves.

John nibbles sporadically at his pastry, more interested now in the painting that has so enthralled Miral. "Do you like cows?" he asks her. "I know where we can go see some real ones that look just like those."

Miral rewards him with a grin, dropping what's left of her cupcake to point at the black and white cattle in the foreground of the picture.

"Not today though," John adds. "It's too dark now. But maybe next time we meet up." He looks to Tom, seeking his approval – and, quite possibly, some reassurance.

Tom smiles. "She'd like that." Tom would too.

And John need not fear that there won't be a next time, if that is something playing on his mind. Whatever B'Elanna's reaction when John reveals his secret – however much she might feel disappointed or insulted by his lack of faith in her – Tom knows that she would never stoop so low as to prevent her father from seeing Miral out of spite. For all John's failings as a father, as a grandfather he has barely put a foot wrong. B'Elanna has acknowledged that to Tom on several occasions. It's yet another reason – as if they needed any more – to be grateful that their daughter is not growing up on a starship in the Delta Quadrant.

And, Tom supposes, that is what he should focus on when appraising his father-in-law's character – who the man is now and not who he was twenty-five years ago. Just as John needs to stop thinking of B'Elanna as that young girl he abandoned (with a young girl's emotional maturity), Tom must let go of that resentment he feels on B'Elanna's behalf. Tom, more than most people, knows the unfairness of being judged disproportionately on past actions. He can like John and yet still think John's past actions wrong. The two are not mutually exclusive.

Tom is a spoonful away from clearing his plate when his communicator bleeps. John twists abruptly in his chair, jolting the table and sloshing tea from his recently refilled cup onto the white linen tablecloth. A passing server is quickly on the scene to mop up the spillage. Miral starts to giggle. John, despite his anxiety, is soon chuckling along with her.

Responding to the call, Tom tells B'Elanna where to find them. He'll stand by the door of the café, looking out for her as she approaches along the street. Asking, briefly, how her meeting went, he's heartened by the tone in which she tells him it was fruitful. There'll be time to discuss the finer points when they get back to San Francisco, but it's good to know she won't be showing up already irritated.

"Are you happy to watch her for a minute?" he asks John, indicating Miral.

"Sure," John replies, after a beat.

It must be the first time he's ever been left in sole charge of the toddler. But, while leaving Miral in John's care for any length of time is not something Tom and B'Elanna have yet discussed as a possibility, it's not as if much can go wrong in the space of a minute or two, with Tom just ten seconds away at the other end of the long, L-shaped room. The worst that can happen is that John will be swayed to hand over the untouched half of his Danish pastry.

Tom stands. "If you could order B'Elanna a coffee when one of the staff comes by again, I'm sure she'd appreciate a hot drink waiting for her."

"Of course," John says. "Good idea." And, as Tom assures a largely indifferent Miral that he'll be back very shortly, his father-in-law adds, "I will tell B'Elanna about Agnetha. Today. When she gets here, I promise."

Tom nods, smiles politely, and, grabbing his jacket, sets off towards the front of the café and the cold outdoors. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he exchanges the hum of happy chatter and the clinks of cutlery on china for the various sounds of the street.

He soon spies B'Elanna striding towards him from the south. Her pace may well indicate an aversion to the wintry weather, but Tom chooses to believe she is mostly just eager to meet with her father, her husband, and her daughter. She does slow down to peruse a storefront, but Tom takes this also as a sign that she's in a good mood.

It'll make things easier.

Knowing that, ultimately, the outcome of the impending conversation is beyond his control, the best thing Tom can do is think positive. Compared to everything B'Elanna and John have been able to get past already, this latest potential obstacle is merely a drop in the ocean.


End file.
